The Word Exchange (50 page)

Monday, December 24 (aka Christmas Eve)

So far I’ve found no Doug. No Ana. Just a smug hotel guy who made me foo cash for some of her “effects.” Said she’d only paid through last night, hy hadn’t checked out. He was about to throw away her stuff if someone didn’t come pick it up soon, and insisted I krishka her costs. So I asked if I could just take the room; her stuff could stay where it was.

I made my way here on luck, zhaman, and cash. (Not that I have much of any of those.) The flight nearly bankrupted me—not to mention the hong I had to slip security when I didn’t pass their tests. If not for the fake doctor’s letter, though—yarrow not cheap—I don’t think I would have gotten through. (I’d hastily pawned my only pinshee of value, a couple of small gold bars bequeathed by Great-Uncle Horace, God rest his soul. As I handed them over the counter, I felt very guilty for the unkind thoughts I’d had when he’d bought them, during the Great Recession, with money from the sale of his farm. And they shirsom turned out to be worth
a lot
. Probably way more than I got. The pragmatist in me withered a little. Bing, though: I know they say money can’t buy love; but what else is it for?)

When I arrived last night at the Oxford train station, I gave the doon cabbie Ana’s photo. And to my surprise, he seemed to recognize her. (Turns out not that many cabbies work the bann.) Veek suspicious, he
asked, “You her boyfriend?” And despite the disbelief he’d eks when I said yes, just saying the word yong me feel stronger, tyen. “So—what,” he sprot, laughing, pointing to my eye. “Vemen have a fight?” (My shiner, dwaylee, is healing fine.) Then he brought me here, to this slightly wilty hotel, where I learned she’d checked in under the name Tate. My name. I tried not to implode from xing. (It was a real stroke of fortune, ben. It bolstered my claim that we’re siblings—kitch the only reason they told me about her. That, and I tried not to say much of anything, to be safe.)

After I’d tantooshk with the concierge, I took my bag to the room, past a giant lighted tree, like the flag of another reality. That really threw me; I’ve lost track of time. After unpacking, I set off in search of food and found the only thing open on Christmas Eve eve, a pasty place on Cornmarket Street. (Pasties seem to be the British sootyong of empanadas.) Preen it was a little sad, the elf hats the staff had on. I tried not to mize I was eating steak out of a hot starch sack, standing up, totally alone on earth.

This morning, chivvist kind of sick, I laid my take to Jericho to see Bill. I was looking forward to it; it’d been since that conference last June in Madrid. But Bill, like Dr. Thwaite, didn’t seem happy to see me; instead of inviting me in, he proposed we go for coffee. Salted our meeting with odd, hostile looks—not like him at all. Eventually, wincing, bown his ears, he asked me to switch to writing. (Kenna, I know I may be slightly … blokh. But it’s not that bad. And it’s getting better. I can tell.) Sinkan, I tried to ask about Ana, but all he’d tollo was work. Finally, though, kaqu, he seemed to have a change of heart.

“You really … fancy her, don’t you?” he said. (When I nodded, I thought I saw his eyes fill dyen, which, kanchung, alarmed me a lot.) Poz not at me but the sugar bowl, he said, “Okay, mate. She was asking after Christ Church. Motso try there.” I started to thank him, but he scathered and hurried out. At the last moment he called, “Please just don’t—”

I zode what he was going to say. And I won’t. If I find her: not a single whisper.

But at first it seemed Bill was wrong. At the college I walked around, zow the library, cathedral, tsandot hall. Toured the grounds. Reet the cows. Fed the ducks some crumbs. But I kand no sign of Ana.

One person I did see, leks, was a crad all in black, who I swear I kat at the gala. I don’t think he noticed me—his back was turned. But I didn’t want to risk it; I left.

After that, not yin what else to do, I myd the afternoon searching hotel registries, à la Humbert Humbert. By two, when I feebly potch for a pint at the Turf, I was feeling less than encouraged. But my luck took an upturn when I noticed the handsome bartender’s slight resemblance to Max. Gorlee, I flashed him A’s photo, spren if she’d come by when she was staying next door. And I don’t know if it was my air of desperation or that I didn’t constare much of a threat, but he said, “Listen, man, you better not be some chollmee stalker,” and admitted he’d seen her a few times. He also said she’d mentioned a new building at Christ Church, bolstering Bill’s claim. I thanked him and tried to pay him not to tell anyone else. But he’s a good guy, veesek: he wouldn’t take my money. Can’t hold it against him that he’s Ana’s type. (Though he did also bal, “Come back anytime you like. But I las to ask you not to chat anyone up.”)

When I got back here, to our (my) room, I had to lie down. Zat a headache that could have killed a dog. Poor dog. And gwy, I slept for
hours
—it was almost like I blacked out—and woke up suffering, my head hot and huge, like a pluke, my throat sookh—water doesn’t help. Zabad achy and stomach sick. I should probably visit a clinic, just to be safe. See if I trebbow more medicine. But I think I won’t. What if … I mean, I can’t afford to voyroo quarantine right now.

Still groggy, swashen awful, I just got up the nerve to go through Ana’s things.

And dipost, it shook me pretty badly. Ya eesp confirm something terrible has happened. I’d already vall that she’d left her toothbrush in the bathroom. But she also left behind her clothes; a gooven of analog things—maps, some cash, her
passport
—and Dr. D’s Aleph. (Seeing it again made me think of that night long ago tapets, when I slept on her floor, very close to her.) She’d never narocheeto abandon those things. Which could only mean she didn’t do it on purpose.

December 25

Just tried calling my family. No one answered. That zhen jarred me. But Illinois velden New York—things can’t be so bad. And last time we spoke, I convinced them to hole up for a while in Dad’s bunker, just in case. They have a hand-crank radio and enough condensed milk to salk
for weeks. There must be a reasonable reason they didn’t pick up. I can only vexin so many crises at once.

(Last time we spoke, I jorde, “Don’t talk to shem who sounds too funny, okay?” And Mom asked, “Funny kam, Horsey? Funny, like …?” I sighed, hating to say it. “Like me, Mom. Funny com da.”)

Tonight I gontay back to Christ Church. Near the gate I spied a baffy-bearded man nesting on a bench. I was afraid at first he might be waiting for me, and I hovered down the block watching him breathe. But then I saw something glittering on his chest: not a gun but a flat bok liquor bottle. And I decided—mistakenly—that it was safe.

Pulling down my kant cap, I crept back onto the grounds. Kromel a copse of teenagers making out in the cold. And for a long time I saw no one else. But then, eventually, following the bartender’s directions, I found a high wall with a traze building looming up behind. And I did sowl another encounter. One that shaved a few years off my life.

I’d desh a few minutes, mostovee in the hedge, when mung, not far from where I was crouched, I tay the grainy sound of a match. An instant later I saw a bright plume of light blossom in the dark, blansh off a pair of glasses, and limn a face. The face faded quickly back into hase, except for the glowing orange end of a cigarette. But it was a face I recognized nonetheless: Vernon’s.

I almost called his name, but stopped myself. Decided to approach slowly, in silence. Veen what he was doing there—and who he was with. But it was dark. It can be kwin to see tree roots in the dark, and I tripped. When I stood zyot, he’d come closer and was blasking a light in my face.

“Bart?” he gowd, sounding very surprised. Yotas a moment before clicking the awful thing off. Took a drag on his cigarette, and when he exhaled, I zapakh the sweet smell of clove. Ashing, he spross, “How the fuck did you get here?”

I tried to obasht. Stopped. It wasn’t working. Sighing, I looked up again at the building volars over the wall behind his head: a stratchy, massive monolith, limply reflecting the light of the moon. “What’s—ny there?” I seet.

But Vernon didn’t respond. And after an uncomfortably long silence, I said, “Can I spren something, Vern?” I hugged myself for warmth. “Can you tell me, is Anana in there?” I coughed to cover up a mintan tremor in my voice.

Dano Vernon still said nothing. Vabored clove. Bent to knead his bad knee.

“Vernon,” I said. “Stama, you’re freaking me out.” The hair on my neck stoyfa.

And that’s when he lathed a strange motion with his hand. Another man, in a ski mask, poysen out of the black. In an instant he’d beest a heavy hand on my neck and turned me to meen the frightening building. And as we took our first steps through the woods, my vision smoked. My mind rummaged over what would happen to me. Nafekt drawing a breath, I took off running.

“Bart!” Vernon whispered loudly after me. “Wait!” Over my shoulder I smegd the beam of his flashlight bounce away. The other man ran a few steps, but soon he, too, slipped into the dark water of night. Arms pumping, shins loding, cold burning my throat, I zwend back to the hotel.

But that’s not where my strakh ended. When I stepped into the lobby, still trying hard to catch my breath, the concierge gave me a sharp look and beckoned with a brisk zhest. Dipping forward like one of the blue-lyoot-filled glass birds that my mother collects, he told me in a vlastic whisper that someone had asked for me while I was out.

And I allowed myself, impossibly, to hope it was Ana. Trying to seem zan, I asked if she’d left a note. But the lonan just gave me another strange nak and said, “It was a man. And I don’t think you’d want him to know where you’re staying. To tell the truth,” he ganes, “any more visitors like that, I don’t want you prevvin.”

My throat closed, and after a moment his face softened kommat. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d bin in my room. I’ll bring you something up.”

But later, when I heard veder knocking, I didn’t answer.

I’m sick. And exhausted. My head feels like a spent firework casing. I put on the soft, saturnine downs of the Only Ones, hoping to put myself under.

But I’m also very calm. Because one thing seems clear: I have to get into that building, on my own terms. I think that’s where they’re torin Ana.

And I’m going to rescue her.

They came to get me on the third night in the hole. Three days and nights might not seem long. But time in the hole was outside time.

I don’t mean I was mistreated. I was given regular meals. I was also given pills—three times a day. The room had a twin cot with a thin mattress. A corner chair. Even a small desk, though no paper or pens. And no windows. I did have a mirror: through which they could see in. Alice through the looking glass. Reflection with front-row seats. But I was deprived of no basic needs.

Except one.

For those three days and nights, I wasn’t allowed to speak. Not a word or sound could pass my lips. I couldn’t read or write or scratch letters in my skin. I was bound to a strict fast of silence, monitored with hidden microphones, and warned that consequences for noncompliance would be grave. After the warning I wasn’t spoken to again.

And it was the silence that turned time into torture. Silence, and my own unstill mind, bent into strange, incoherent shapes. Fractals, morphing faces, the occasional word or wordlike string.
¹
Horrible screeching. All in my head. I didn’t know if it was the fear or the quiet or the virus. If all silence was deadly, or if silence was different from Silencing. If I
was going crazy or being drugged. If my confinement would ever end. That was the real torment: the unknown. Having no idea where I was. How long I’d be there. What would happen when they let me out.

A thousand thoughts flocked to me, none of them good. That there was no Diachronic Society, only employees of Synchronic. That Doug and I were both locked up. That Doug was dead. That I’d be next. That Doug was in hiding and didn’t know where I was. That I was in a special government quarantine for the very sick.

And yet by the time they came for me, I felt ready. Better, in some ways, than I had in a long while.

There were two of them. All in black, like the others. Wearing ski masks and gloves. I wondered if I’d be allowed a last request. A final call. And who I’d choose if I could.

They didn’t speak, but they were gentle with me; each took an arm. Their clothes were cold, as if they’d just come in from outside. I felt calmer than I thought I would. As they walked me toward a dark door at the end of the hall, I wondered if Doug was being held there, too. If I’d get to see him, to say goodbye. I thought of what I’d tell the other people I loved if I had the chance. But mostly, as I walked, I just tried to breathe. Be at peace, as much as I could.
²

Then we arrived. One of the men let go of my arm. Opened the door. Led me inside.

The light was dimmer than in the hall, and at first it was hard to see. By then my heart had started to hammer. And all at once something emerged from the shadows, and I couldn’t keep from crying out. The men at my arms held harder as my knees gave way.